


Just Say the Word and I'll Part the Sea

by gremlins-came-and-got-me (Scared_Beings_in_the_Dark)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Chris POV, F/F, Helpful Deaton, Spark Stiles, WEDDING AT THE END, Warning: Gerard Argent, back from the dead, loss of memories
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-16
Updated: 2018-07-16
Packaged: 2019-06-11 13:04:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15316095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scared_Beings_in_the_Dark/pseuds/gremlins-came-and-got-me
Summary: It’s not often that Chris can be surprised.Today is one of the rare ones.Today, Allison comes back from the dead.





	Just Say the Word and I'll Part the Sea

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this post](http://asheathes.tumblr.com/post/92013116320/teen-wolf-au-allison-comes-back-and-has-no) and in part by [Blue October's I Hope You're Happy](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XLGKb6OLKpM).
> 
> Title taken from [Foster the People's Sit Next to Me](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BKLVpDTZOPQ).

~ * ~

It’s not often that Chris can be surprised.

Today is one of the rare ones.

He stands in shock, watching as Derek Hale of all people stumbles up his driveway, something wrapped in a blanket draped in his arms. Ahead of him, Scott and Stiles scurry, kicking twigs and rocks out of Derek’s path.

Chris clenches his fingers on his mug. He’d been planning on cleaning the yard sometime this week.

“Boys,” Chris says, stepping back to let Scott past. Stiles pauses, turns, and frowns at the bundle in Derek’s arms. “Why are you here?”

No one responds as Stiles shoves Chris toward the dining room where Isaac had been doing his homework and now he and Scott are sweeping the piles of books and Chris’ taxes to the floor.

“Here, here,” Scott says, a desperate edge to his voice. Isaac is pale, shaking, hands reaching toward Derek and just as quickly drawing back.

“Get some water, something easy to eat,” Derek instructs, the first time he’s spoken.

He sounds absolutely calm. It’s maddening.

Chris sets his mug on his writing desk, making a mental note to come back later and drain it. Derek looks up when Chris touches his shoulder.

“Explain,” he demands.

“We found her out in the preserve,” Derek says. He leans over the blanket and tugs it down.

Chris feels like someone just punched him, his breath gone, pain flaring deep in his gut, because lying there, eyes closed, breathing easy, looking like she might wake at any moment is his daughter. His Allison.

Chris likes to think he can compartmentalize, and that he does it well. Still, this is a shock he wasn’t expecting. He faints.

~ * ~

When he sits up, he expects Allison to have vanished, to have Isaac back to doing homework, and not to have Derek Hale kneeling over him saying, “There you go. That’s it,” as he helps him up.

Allison is still asleep on the table. Someone has placed a folded towel under her head, and Isaac is missing.

Chris crosses to the table, gripping the edge tightly because otherwise he’ll grab his little girl and he doesn’t know if he could let her go once that happens.

Derek says, softly, “She was at the base of the Nemeton. I don’t remember what she was wearing last, but I don’t think it was this.”

This being blue silk pajamas, bare feet, nails unpainted.

“No,” Chris agrees. “She was buried in a black dress. Boots.” He unclenches one hand and uses a shaking finger to brush a curl off Allison’s cheek. “Is this really her?”

“Smells like her,” Derek says, cutting a quick glance to where Scott and Stiles are standing against the wall silent. “At least, what I remember of her. Although, there’s something missing, some scent that used to be hers.”

“She doesn’t smell like an Argent anymore,” Isaac says from the doorway. In his arms, he has several articles of clothing. Allison’s clothes that Chris couldn’t bring himself to throw away or donate. “She smells new.”

Derek nods. “It’s like she’s been reborn. I’ll have to look into the lore of it, but I don’t think anything like this has ever happened before.”

“I’ll help you,” Stiles says quickly. He makes an apologetic face at Scott before offering his hand to Chris. “We’ll be a phone call away if you need us.”

“I’m going to stay here with you,” Scott says. “Just in case.”

“Just in case,” Chris repeats numbly, but he knows: Allison might not be human anymore. She probably isn’t if she is indeed back from the dead.

“Isaac?” Derek says.

“I’m staying,” Isaac says. He looks at Chris, eyes shining with unshed tears. Chris lifts his arm, and Isaac runs to his side, burrowing in.

“Someone needs to call Lydia,” Derek says as he and Stiles leave. “She shouldn’t be left behind.”

The silence when they go is deafening, screaming with a thousand voices, all of them saying the same thing: Allison.

Chris sits at the head of the table and watches his little girl sleep.

~ * ~

Lydia arrives in a whirlwind of perfume, verbal orders, Allison’s favorite coffee order, and a scarf Chris spent hours looking for so he could wrap his daughter in it during her funereal dirges.

Before he quite knows what’s happened, Allison is on the couch, still sleeping while Lydia cards her fingers through her hair. The scarf has been wrapped around Allison’s shoulders, another blanket piled over her legs.

Lydia opens her phone, demands it to call Stiles, and then spends the next thirty minutes interrogating Derek and Stiles as they work through a book of arcane Latin, trying to find an explanation.

Stiles keeps a running tab on how many times Derek mutters something in another language (thirty-four) until Derek interrupts everyone with a quiet, “I think I’ve found it.”

“Found what?” a soft voice asks.

Chris stumbles over to the couch, dropping down to gather Allison to his chest, hugging her as tightly as he dares.

“Daddy, found what?” she asks again.

~ * ~

Allison sits on the couch, eying everyone with unbridled curiosity. Next to her, Lydia holds her hand, patting at it every so often like she’s still trying to reassure herself that Allison is real.

Allison hasn’t asked who they are, but Isaac and Scott spent some time stage whispering about how her chemo signals indicated she had no idea who anyone aside from “Daddy” was. Chris had refrained from smacking them only because he was still holding Allison.

Derek and Stiles bring back a large tome of phrases that mean nothing even when Derek and Lydia translate them.

After nearly two hours of arguing the finer points of Latin grammar, Lydia declares it’s time for a break. Derek looks relieved, sinking into one of the folding chairs Isaac dragged up from the basement.

Chris forces himself to bring out refreshments. The kids get soda, an exotic flavor he’d bought on a whim because it reminded him of his missing little girl. He tries not to choke up at the thought that she’ll actually get to drink it.

He grabs a beer for himself, staring at it for a few blank seconds before trading it for something stronger.

Derek accepts the mug of whiskey Chris passes him. “I was patrolling the preserve because something felt off. It’s like when the Nemeton was active. I thought there was something else we’d have to fight. I didn’t imagine I’d find Allison there.”

“She looks like she was cared for,” Stiles remarks, poking at the clothes Allison had been wearing. “Very cultish.”

“What do you remember about where you were?” Lydia asks. She declines the soda, but Allison grabs her cup, smiling down into the bubbles.

“It’s fizzy,” she explains. “Daddy doesn’t let me have fizzy drinks because Mommy says they’re bad for me.” Her smile fades. “Daddy, where is Mommy?”

Derek does a full body startle. “I’m not going to find her, am I?” he asks, horror and disgust evident in his voice.

Chris hopes not. It’s bad enough that Allison is back. He shudders to think of what Victoria would return as. Allison had died human. Victoria hadn’t.

“She had to go away,” Chris says at the same time that Stiles says, “She died.”

“What?” Stiles says, “you’re not supposed to lie to children. It reinforces their gullibility or something like that.”

“She’s not a child,” Scott points out.

“Seriously, Scott? ‘Daddy,’ ‘Mommy.’ How is that not the language of a child?”

“She’s not a child,” Scott insists.

“Actually, I think she might be,” Derek says before Stiles can wind up. “She’s using language that implies a younger mind. Whatever happened to her might have reset her so that she’s as she was at one point in her life.”

“In other words,” Stiles says triumphantly, “a child.”

“Fine. She had the mind of a child,” Scott says. “What do we do?”

Everyone looks at Chris. “What?” he asks. “If you’re asking me if I know of a creature that could do this, then no I don’t. If you think I’m not going to care for my daughter just because she’s returned from God knows where, then get the fuck out of my house.”

“No one’s questioning you,” Derek says, not unkindly. He looks at Allison with a saddened gaze, and Chris thinks he understands. If Derek could bring back his loved ones, he would. But would they be like Allison, unable to recognize him because he didn’t stop growing when they did?

“I think I know of a myth,” Derek says, “but it’ll take time to research it. The books are kept sealed in a library far from here.” He glances at Lydia. “They are in archaic Latin. I might need help with translations.”

Lydia pretends not to hear him, squeezing Allison’s hand harder.

“Lyds,” Stiles says, “this could seriously help her.”

“I’m not going,” Lydia says tightly. Tears well up in her eyes, and she looks like she’s going to scream.

Oh, right, she’s a banshee. They do that around death. Chris wonders if Allison still smells like she’s been buried.

“Derek can read archaic Latin just fine,” she insists. “He doesn’t need me. Not like Allison does.”

Allison looks confused.

“Who are you?” she asks in a stage whisper.

The first tear rolls down Lydia’s cheek. “I’m your friend,” she says. To Chris, it sounds like she just declared her love. He studies her, the way she’s paler than usual, the tears that won’t stop. He thinks, dizzyingly, that he should have realized Lydia was also in love with his little girl. Allison can’t go anywhere without someone being wrapped around her finger.

Derek nods sharply, catching on when the others are still lost. “I’ll text you if I need any help.” He stands up, passing the untouched mug back to Chris. “Take care of her,” he tells Scott and Isaac. “We don’t know if anyone is looking for her yet.” The door shuts with a kind of finality.

Chris sits in Derek’s empty chair and swallows the whiskey in one long swallow. He hopes whoever resurrected his daughter doesn’t come looking for her. Chris has enough blood on his hands.

~ * ~

Chris gets one blissful week of his daughter dancing from room to room, trying on all her clothes. She wears pink again. When she was eight, she went through a phase. A different color every week. And then, they moved to Beacon Hills and black became the default. Chris understood. It allowed them to hide in the shadows. And it hid blood.

He digs out her gymnastic ribbons, teaches her how to cartwheel and tumble. He helps her with handstands and walking on her hands.

Through it all, Lydia watches them. She always brings Allison coffee. Derek keeps them updated on what he finds, which isn’t much.

The boys are at school, Isaac staying with Scott again while the Allison thing is going on, and when Chris opens his mouth to ask Lydia, she says, “Mono,” and turns to watch Allison coloring a picture.

One week. And then it’s over.

Derek returns in the middle of the night, bloody scratches down his torso and back, still shifted when Chris throws open the door for him.

Chris puts down a line of mountain ash because those scratches don’t look like they came from humans.

Derek stumbles to the table and drops a thick book on it. He wavers on his feet, his eyes still wolfed up and the rest of his features melting back to human. He opens the book to a page in a language that doesn’t look like the archaic Latin they’d been reading before.

“It was a ritual. Bring someone to life and put someone else in their place.” There is a pinched, haunted look in his eyes, and Chris almost knows what Derek is going to say before he continues with, “Gerard did it.”

“It’s you,” Chris realizes. “My father brought my daughter back just to kill you.”

“I’m sorry,” Derek says, like it’s his fucking fault. “There’s a creature after me. I don’t know how long it’ll be safe for me to be here before I endanger the rest of you.”

Chris shakes his head. “You can’t run forever,” he says.

“If they can’t get to me, then she will die,” Derek tells him. “Chris, I’m so sorry. I’ll—I. Give me a day?”

“Twelve hours,” Chris says.

Derek nods. “Twelve hours is enough. Thanks.” He turns to go, and Chris grabs his wrist.

“No,” he says through clenched teeth. “Not you. I’m saying: give me twelve hours to get rid of it.” He taps the book. “Start reading.”

Derek sinks down, flipping the pages quickly, scanning the text. Chris checks upstairs, but Allison is still asleep.

Lydia watches him as he tucks his daughter in, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “Is Derek going to die?” she asks.

“Not if I can help it,” Chris says. “Get some rest. We’ve got less than twelve hours to kill this new threat.”

He leaves her curled on his daughter’s bed.

Derek isn’t at the book. For a heart-stopping second, Chris thinks Derek already sacrificed himself, but then he remembers he never broke the mountain ash barrier and Derek is as trapped in the house as the creature is stuck outside.

Chris finds him in the kitchen gathering herbs. “I’m going to call Stiles and Deaton,” Derek says when he notices Chris. “The ritual has to be performed by a spark, which I’m pretty sure Stiles is. Deaton said something about it a while ago.”

Derek’s face is drawn, tired. His shirt is shredded, barely hanging onto his body, and the scratches look unhealed.

“We should get you cleaned up.”

Derek glances down, shaking his head slowly. “There’s no time,” he says. “What are you doing now?”

“I’m going to get my guns. You get that ritual ready and I’ll make sure you have time to perform it.”

~ * ~

Deaton and Stiles stumble in about the same time that Chris has finished cleaning his guns, and Derek passes out.

Deaton checks on Derek, making an ambiguous noise that Chris takes to mean it’s time to clean Derek’s still unhealed wounds.

“Start brewing the ingredients,” Deaton tells Stiles. “Mr. Argent, help me get Derek into a cold bath. I’ll need salt. Himalayan if you have it, table if you don’t.”

Chris finds it ironic that Gerard’s insistence for only the greatest ingredients is helping to foil his plan. All those herbs in the ritual? Gerard’s. The stupid pink salt Victoria wouldn’t let Chris use on steaks? Gerard’s. The mountain ash stored under beds and in vases littered around the house? …Victoria’s, but she’d gotten the idea from Gerard.

Derek rouses a bit when Chris and Deaton tip him into the tub. The water Deaton turns on is straight cold. Chris doesn’t envy Derek’s position at all.

The whole packet of salt gets poured on Derek’s wounds. Deaton rubs it in like he’s massaging a flank of meat. Derek roars weakly, batting at Deaton. The scratches aren’t scratches after all. Instead, they’re deep lacerations. Chris could stick a finger in one and touch bone.

“Hold him down,” Deaton instructs, and Chris leans his whole weight on Derek’s chest, pressing him back into the tub as he starts fighting.

Minutes pass before Derek’s body goes rigid. His eyes snap open, electric blue, and he arches his back, baring his throat to Chris before he sags, sinking under the water. Deaton pulls the plug and lets it drain out before replacing the stopper. He turns the water to warm.

“Clothes?” he asks. Chris hurries to his bedroom and pulls out some of his. He returns to find Derek wrapped in towels, sitting on the closed lid of the toilet while Deaton is in the kitchen with Stiles.

Derek accepts the clothes, pulling them on and trailing after Chris as he heads to the kitchen.

“Daddy?” Allison calls from the steps. Chris freezes, turning to her.

“Yes, baby girl?”

“What’s going on? Why is everyone here?”

“We’re trying to figure something out,” Chris says.

From the kitchen, Stiles says, “Don’t lie to her.”

“We’re trying to perform a cleansing ritual,” Derek says. “There’s a creature following me.”

“Did you take its book?”

“Yes.”

“Is that why it’s mad?”

“Probably.”

Allison nods sagely. “You should give the book back. And say you’re sorry for taking it.”

“I’ll do that,” Derek promises. “How about you go back to bed now?”

“I’m not tired,” she protests even as she yawns widely.

Derek puts his hand on Chris’ back, steering him toward her. “We’ll be ready when you are,” he tells him. “Put her to bed.”

Chris takes Allison’s hand, holding onto it tightly.

“Are you going to cry?” Allison asks him as they climb the stairs.

“I might,” he admits.

“Are you sad?”

“No.” Chris kisses her head, leading her to her room. Lydia stirs when Allison crawls onto the bed. Chris tucks them both in. “I’m happy.”

He waits until Allison slips off to sleep again before he goes back downstairs.

Stiles has a row of mason jars filled with patina green liquid. Deaton has sage and thyme bundled in front of him, tying each sprig with a different colored string.

Derek watches, hands behind his back.

“Are you sure this is going to work?” Stiles asks.

“No,” Derek says, “but there’s no time to look for a different solution.”

“Okay. Just in case, we should make some Molotov Cocktails.”

“Just in case?” Derek raises an eyebrow.

“I have frag grenades.” Chris retrieves a case from the basement. “Will these do?” He shows Stiles the array. Frag grenades, compressed grenades, splinter grenades. Homemade and military grade. Everything anyone could want to blow up creatures of the night.

“Yeah, those’ll work great.”

“We’ll need bait,” Deaton says. “Since Derek can’t touch any of the ritual supplies once the incantation is complete, he’ll do it.”

“I knew you healed me for a reason,” Derek jokes weakly. He grabs the case of grenades. “Just pull the pin and toss?” he asks. Chris nods. “Okay. I’ll be in charge of these.”

“Stiles, the incantation, if you will?”

Stiles picks up a crumpled sheet of notebook paper. “Ready?” he asks. No one answers him.

~ * ~

The creature lunges as soon as Derek steps outside. Derek dodges left, tumbling off the porch and across the grass as it chases him.

It looks like a mix between the full alpha shift of a werewolf à la Peter Hale and an angry badger with front claws the size of a small child’s arms and a snout that rivals a large dog.

Chris hefts his two jars and sprigs of herbs. According to Deaton, the herbs will act as a barrier, a protection against the creature. The only one unprotected is Derek. It leaves a bad taste in Chris’ mouth to watch Derek evade the sweeping claws. One wrong step and Derek will end up with those deep cuts that refuse to heal again.

It’s too dark to get a good look at exactly what kind of creature it is, and Chris doesn’t particularly care to find out. Just as long as the ritual works and removes it from this plane of existence.

Derek lobs the first grenade into the creature’s mouth, leaping back as its claws cut the air in front of his nose. The explosion is muffled and useless. Derek curses, digging out another grenade.

They pass in front of Deaton, who throws his jars at the creature’s back. The glass shatters, the liquid coating it. The creature throws its head back and yowls in pain. Derek darts forward, shoving the grenade down its throat.

When it recoils, Stiles smashes his jars on its front. Derek grabs the creature and throws it over his shoulder. The frag grenade explodes, sending bits of the creature spraying over all of them. Still, it gains its feet, bones and muscles rippling until it stands fully healed again.

Derek stares it down, his own claws and teeth at the ready.

With a snarl, he jumps at it, sending them both crashing down. Derek keeps rolling, and one of the creature’s claws snags his back, shredding cloth and flesh alike.

Chris darts forward and slams both his jars over the creature’s head, jumping back as it roars and swipes at him.

Deaton steps forward, his herbs held aloft, already chanting the words they’d spoken over the liquid inside. He lights them and tosses them onto the creature. It hisses and cries in pain as the flame spreads.

Stiles repeats Deaton’s process and adds his burning herbs to the creature. Chris spits his portion, imbuing as much hatred as he can into it. While Deaton and Stiles’ flames burn orange, Chris’ touches the creature’s skin and ignites into blue flame.

They all stand and stare as it burns away into nothing.

Derek suddenly claps his hands over his ears, turning toward the house before an earsplitting scream emanates from within.

“Lydia!” Stiles shouts, and it galvanizes them to action.

Chris skids to a stop inches from Derek’s bleeding back. Lydia is crouched on the lowest step, Stiles beside her, holding her back while Deaton kneels over Allison’s prone body. Chris’ heart seizes, and he grips Derek’s shoulder tightly because the alternative is he gets in the way. It feels like her death all over again, and Chris knows he won’t be able to deal with it this time.

“She’s breathing,” Deaton announces. “Unconscious. I would suggest taking her to a hospital for a more thorough examination.”

“Can’t do that here,” Derek murmurs. He moves, slowly so Chris’ hand stays on his shoulder, and crouches down. He places a hand on Allison’s arm, closing his eyes and focusing his breathing. He draws back, shaking his head. “She’s not in pain.”

“Of course she isn’t,” someone says from the open doorway. Chris spins around, gun up and pointed between his father’s eyes.

Gerard tsks, shaking his head slowly, an amused smile playing about his lips. “Did you truly think I would do anything to hurt my granddaughter?”

“Yes,” Chris says. “I do think you would do anything to anyone, Allison included, if it helped you accomplish your goal.” He glances at Derek briefly before turning back to his father. “You failed. We destroyed the creature you sent to collect him.”

Gerard sneers at him. “Why are you protecting this animal?” he demands, pointing at Derek.

“Because ‘this animal’ has done nothing but help me since before Allison was killed,” Chris says. “He’s been more family to me than you. You trained me to be more of a monster than Derek Hale will ever be.”

Deaton stands up. “It may not be my place to say, but there is only one way to truly be rid of him,” he tells Chris. “No one would begrudge you.”

“Can you live with taking my life?” Gerard taunts. “You couldn’t before.” His face falls from amusement and glee into fury and rage. “You’ve never had the stomach for killing. You’re more useless than the werewolves. I should have killed you when you were a child.”

“Don’t listen to him,” Derek says. “Allison needs you; you’re more than your father’s son.”

“What do you think is going to happen when there isn’t a body to be taken?” Gerard says. “Do you really think that they’ll be happy when the creature comes back to them empty-handed?”

“Who even is ‘them’?” Stiles asks. “Your little resurrection cult?”

Gerard ignores him. “They’ll send more creatures like the one you just banished.” He levels an assessing look at Derek. “You won’t be able to banish them all before they kill him.”

“Dad?”

Everyone shifts to look at Allison. She’s sitting up, hand held out to Chris. “Dad, please. Kill him.”

Before Chris can blink, Derek moves, claws raking through Gerard’s throat. He tosses the body out onto the lawn, and several shadows converge on it, dragging it away.

Chris closes the door, laying down a line of mountain ash.

Deaton tugs Derek and Stiles to the upstairs bathroom while Chris stares at Allison.

She has on a nightgown Lydia found for her, her feet bare, hair tousled. She looks the same as she did before the fight, but now Chris can see something in her eyes.

Then, what she called him sets in, and he blinks back tears. “You remember,” he says softly.

She nods. “I do. I remember everything that happened after I died. Gerard didn’t let me rest long.”

“Are you here?” he asks and means is she going to stay? Does he have to bury his daughter again?

“I’m here,” Allison says. She hugs him tightly, clinging to him while he wipes his eyes on her gown. “Are you sad?”

“No, never.” Chris thinks he should feel something other than elation at the revelation that he has his daughter back, but aside from the relief of the fact that his father is finally dead, there’s nothing. Only happiness and love.

He pulls back, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. She smiles at him, going on tiptoes to press a kiss to his forehead. Then, she steps back. “Maybe someday I’ll talk about it,” she tells him. “But right now, I have something more important to do.”

She moves to the steps. Lydia still stands on the bottom step. It makes them the same height.

“I remember,” Allison tells her.

“I heard,” Lydia replies.

Allison leans forward, hands coming up to cup Lydia’s face. Then, she kisses her, soft, sweet.

Chris moves to the kitchen to give them privacy. 

~ One Year Later ~

Chris stands in the doorway. On one arm, Allison smiles, radiant, her dimples deep, her eyes twinkling. On the other, Lydia stands, regal, her smile clipped, her eyes assessing the crowd. Their dresses are pale yellow and pale blue. Neither wanted to wear white.

The music begins, and Chris steps forward, Allison and Lydia gliding with him. As they reach Alan Deaton, standing before the altar, Chris turns back to the gathered crowd. It’s small. Derek, Stiles, Scott, Isaac, Scott’s mom, and Stiles’ dad. Chris thinks of all the people lost, knows that he’s better off for it.

He presses a kiss to each of Allison’s and Lydia’s cheeks and steps back.

Chris doesn’t cry often, the emotion drummed out of him at a young age, but as he takes his seat at the front of the chairs, he wipes his eyes. His daughter, his baby, is getting married. Today, he thinks, overjoyed he has a new daughter.

Allison and Lydia.

His two girls come home.

~ The End ~

**Author's Note:**

> Not Beta read. I will be back to edit it more thoroughly later.
> 
> Cross-posted to [my Tumblr](http://1989dreamer.tumblr.com/post/175957923135/just-say-the-word-and-ill-part-the-sea).
> 
> Thanks to all who read!


End file.
